I am officially opening myself up to the Universe. To flow. Each day planting daffodil bulbs for my eventual crop circle of blossoms–a giant concentric circle of all of the meanderings and stuckness and somersaults of these, my years.
I answered an inquiry about writing for an LGBTQ blog and submitted samples of my writing. Why was I compelled to blurt out disclaimers about most of my publishing credits being in the realm of poetry and personal essays? Just open up and let go. Let go of outcomes, expectations and preferences. Release my watery body into the stream and let the current carry me, arms and legs akimbo, effortless. In my circle of folks learning to work with the material plane, learning to ALLOW the blessings, we keep coming back to this principle: Show up, do the footwork, allow Spirit (in my case Goddess) to do the rest.
I’ve spent so much time being microscopic. The other day I was standing with someone who has provided many challenges over the past couple of years, lessons about relating, and all of a sudden, I realized that I am physically taller than her. A profound zooming-in and freezeframe moment. How could I not have noticed this?
Because I’ve been energetically cowering beneath her. Because I am now learning what my right size is. Like when you grow up and are shocked to realize one day that your parents aren’t giants, that you can look them in the eye. A revealed alteration in consciousness I experienced, standing in the hallway with this person.
Like how for two years, I’ve been working for this client, going to her yard, cleaning up, and her golden retriever rushes out, yowling and barking and all frisky-like, and I have been so frightened. Even though I love dogs and most of the dogs I work with love me. But this one I couldn’t get a handle on. Yesterday, however, when she came barreling toward me, I simply stuck out my hand, nonchalantly, at my hip, and you know what she did? She ran up and nuzzled her nose into my cupped hand, and I petted her, and she made this gurgling noise, like a pig oinking, like she was indulging in utter gluttonous delight. And I’ve been afraid. She was just talking and I heard shouting. I don’t want to imagine violence anymore. In the early times, the fingerpaints I had only came in hues of bruises and empty houses and growling stomachs. I am blending a brighter set of paints these days.
For all these years.
You should see how tall I am now.
I’m just the
And that golden is my new pal. All that’s golden. Stay golden, Ponyboy.